Mad About The Boy
by AMKelley
Summary: John usually doesn't do things like this, considering that he's a doctor and not a babysitter damn it. But still, here he was on his way to Mycroft's house to watch over his little brother. *PWP, AU, Teenlock, babysitter!John, ephebophilia, dirty thoughts, underage, rough sex, oral sex, fingering*
1. Chapter 1

John usually doesn't do things like this, considering that he's a doctor and not a babysitter damn it. It was his day off for crying out loud and he definitely had better things to do. But still, here he was on his way to Mycroft's house to watch over his little brother while Mycroft attended to some pressing matters.

Mycroft and him weren't exactly close friends but they were far from being just acquaintances either. They had known each other for a while now, just under a year in fact, but Mycroft was a busy man, thus making lunch dates very few and far apart. He knew enough about Mycroft to call him a good friend, but John had found this request to be quite outlandish and perhaps a little presumptuous.

He doesn't know why he's complaining, though. In fact, if John were being honest he wouldn't say he was doing this out of the kindness of his heart. John was well aware of Mycroft's financial success and if John could make a quick and reasonable fee for just watching a kid for a few hours, then why not? To be fair, this wasn't the only reason John was friends with Mycroft but it didn't hurt either.

There was no shame in this fact, however, because Mycroft knew why John was doing it and he didn't care either way. As long as John carried out the dubious task. Anyone with half a brain knew to steer clear of Mycroft's infamous little brother. John has never met Mycroft's brother in person, but he's certainly gathered enough information about him by colleagues him and Mycroft share.

His name was Sherlock which was, just like Mycroft, a rather silly name if you asked John. It made John want to question who on Earth would name their children Mycroft and Sherlock. But it wasn't his place to ask, or complain for that matter. John didn't have to do this and no one had twisted his arm. This was on his own volition.

John arrived at the front of Mycroft's house a few moments later and he did not have to double check to see if he had the right address. He wouldn't go so far as to call it a mansion, but it was pretty darn close and it put John's tiny apartment to shame ten times over. And then some. John couldn't even begin to imagine how much this made a dent in Mycroft's bank account, if it made one at all.

He makes his way up the big path, taking long strides to cover the distance in half the time. John gets to the front door, giving the impressive archway a once over before ringing the bell to make his presence known. He stands there for a long moment just waiting, rocking on his heels and back again. It's a big place and John doesn't hold anything against Mycroft for taking a considerable amount of time to answer the door.

"Ah! John Watson," Mycroft greets when he's opened the door and there is a faint smile of familiarity, or maybe the look is astute. "Please, do come in."

"I'm not late am I?" John inquires, getting ready to apologize if he is, but Mycroft shakes his head lightly.

"Right on time actually," Mycroft clarifies, shutting the door behind them. "Was the place difficult to find?"

"Not at all. I just got a late start this morning," John tells him with a nervous chuckle as he looks around.

"I can imagine so," Mycroft comments. "Excuse me a moment, would you?"

Mycroft walks past John to stand at the foot a big staircase, resting a hand on the banister while he plants the other on his hip.

"Sherlock! I say, Sherlock!" Mycroft calls out, letting his voice carry up the stairs. There is no initial response and this Mycroft to become cross. "Sherlock get your narrow behind to the foyer this instant!"

Which was a nice way of saying, get your scrawny ass down here right now or else. John has to cringe a little at that outburst, wondering how Mycroft can raise his voice at his little brother with such contempt. There is still no response, even to this threat, but there is a faint shuffle of feet that can be heard coming down the hall upstairs.

A head of wild curls emerges at the top of the stairs and John's jaw literally drops at the sight of the kid because, by all rights, he's not a kid. Not entirely, at least. John had expected many things, even the worst, but he was almost certain Sherlock was a child going by the things people have told him. This, however, was not the case.

"For god's sake, show some manners and come greet our guest!" Mycroft calls up to him. He turns sideways, mouthing the word sorry to John.

Sherlock sighs heavily as if it really pains him to do so and lazily takes his time descending the stairs. He grips onto the wooden railing, letting his hand run down the smooth polished surface. Each heavy foot fall results in Sherlock's curls bouncing slightly and his head bobbles around, presenting the appearance of being too lazy to have any posture to speak of.

"And would it kill you to stand up straight?" Mycroft remarks rhetorically.

Sherlock doesn't react to this, in fact his posture slackens even more, going so far as to stick his tongue at Mycroft with a pinched expression. It's in this moment when John realizes what a brat Sherlock is and why everyone had referred to him as a child because he certainly acted like one.

Sherlock seemed to be in his mid-teens, possibly fourteen or maybe even fifteen, going by the light acne and petulant attitude towards his brother. He was easily taller than John, though, seeming to have hit a growth spurt earlier on, thus making him appear older.

But the boy, despite his childish demeanor, was absolutely breathtaking in every sense of the word. From his bright blue eyes all the way down to his long, pale legs that stemmed from his shorts. Sherlock was the embodiment of sin itself and if it were up to John, he would most definitely have his way with Sherlock right now on those stairs in front of Mycroft's disapproving scowl of contempt.

When the boy finally reaches the base of the stairs he goes out of his way to step around Mycroft with his nose turned up, and, oh what a brat he is. John is able to make more accurate assessments now that Sherlock is on ground level with him and the mere presence of the boy is staggering as it is overpowering.

"What's so important that you had to call me all the way down here?" Sherlock comments in a snotty tone, rolling his eyes.

And, oh god, does that make John's blood boil in the best way possible. The very attitude of this boy is enough to send him climbing up the walls.

"Don't pretend that you aren't aware," Mycroft accuses knowingly, scowling ever so slightly. "I told you last night."

"You know I don't listen to a word you say," Sherlock points out and it's an obvious lie meant to rattle Mycroft's cage. His irises drift over towards John, becoming vaguely curious of the older man. "To what do I owe the dubious thrill?"

"As you should already know, I'm going to a very important meeting today," Mycroft informs as he goes on to introduce John to shift the focus of the conversation. "This is Mr. Watson. He'll be looking after you in Mrs. Hudson's absence."

Sherlock's bright gaze flicks over to the blonde man again, giving him an apathetic once over as if he's deducing him quietly. This soon changes when Sherlock gives John a sly little smile, hinting at a plot or scheme in the making. John squirms slightly, feeling put on the spot by Sherlock's sudden keen interest on him.

"Well, you certainly are an improvement," Sherlock observes suggestively, referring to John as he stares at him more thoroughly. "Are you not going to introduce us more properly, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock, this is John Watson. He's a friend of mine. John Watson this is my... pretentious little brother, Sherlock" Mycroft bites out, casting a stern gaze at Sherlock that goes ignores for the most part.

"It certainly is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Watson," Sherlock purrs, slinking up to John almost in a lewd manner as he gnaws on his thumbnail to emulate innocence.

"And it's nice to meet you-"

"Very stimulating," Sherlock adds, cutting off John's sentence.

"Sherlock, behave yourself now," Mycroft warns, gaining him a scornful look from the rambunctious teen.

"You'll have to excuse Mycroft. He's quite the stick in the mud. A real prude," Sherlock says, raising his voice on the last sentence to get a reaction. "Never lets me have any fun."

"Yes, poor Sherlock... Always playing martyrdom," Mycroft mocks with a bored tone, turning to John instead. "If you need to contact me you have my number. Don't hesitate to do so either. Though I'd prefer it if you text rather than call."

"Thank you, but I'm sure we'll be quite fine," John assures with a well-practiced smile even though his cringing internally.

"Let's hope so," Mycroft remarks with a weary look, grabbing his umbrella from the coat rack near the door. "By all means, make yourself at home and don't hesitate to take a look around. I should be back by eight. I have to get going now."

Mycroft spared a look down at his watch and quirked his eyebrows in surprise, rushing out the door with another word. The front door clicked shut and John was left there, standing alone in silence with Sherlock who began to walk around him in a circle as if to study him more thoroughly. It unhinged John a little but he let Sherlock satisfy his curiosity.

"So, is there anything I should know about? Anything that you're not supposed to do in particular or..?" John offers, trying to start a conversation.

The questions make Sherlock stop in mid stride as he was about to come around to John's front. Sherlock places his hands upon his hips and steps around John, brushing against the older man fleetingly. John shivers at the contact, letting his eyes rake along the backs of Sherlock's exposed calves, all the way up to his taut little butt barely concealed within his shorts.

Oh, the things John would do to this boy if he were a few years older. How glorious this boy would look in the throes of passion as John scraped his blunt nails down the expanse of Sherlock's undoubtedly pale back, leaving vague welts in their wake. John would enjoy making this brat suffer in the most pleasurable way possible.

"Do you think I'd really tell you if I wasn't supposed to do something?" Sherlock presses, basking in his perpetual arrogance.

"Honesty is the best policy," John states, willing himself to concentrate on other things. Sherlock seems to consider this.

"Suppose you're right," Sherlock agrees, mulling it over for a moment longer before dropping his hands down off of his hips. "But I honestly can't remember half the things I'm not allowed to do. You see, I've lost count."

"I guess it doesn't matter either way. As long as you don't burn the place down," John chuckles lightly, trying for a joke.

"Can't make any promises," Sherlock retorts with a wicked grin, and oh how his lips curve just a shade of sinful.

Sherlock's lips are in a perfect bow shape, almost reminiscent of those sappy hearts people receive on Valentine's day, and it gets John's pulse pounding. It's unfair how gorgeous this boy is and the fact that he's only fifteen makes it even more ludicrous. John unconsciously lips his dry lips, wondering what it would feel like to claim those lips as his own and what it would sound like if he were to bite them tenderly.

John smiles nervously, feeling himself be drawn in by the boy's uncanny ability to seduce a man with a suggestive gesture or comment. He walks further into the house, past Sherlock and into what he assumes to be the family room. There's plenty of antique furniture lying around as well as a fireplace and John is definitely impressed by how well off Mycroft is, if not a little jealous.

Sherlock undoubtedly follows John around like a lost puppy or, better yet, a shadow. He trails close behind John as the older man inspects some of the trinkets and other dull family heirlooms that Sherlock couldn't care less about. He watches as deft fingers brush against brass and silver, collecting dust on the tips before rubbing the residue away on his jumper. Sherlock is fascinated by John in a very subtle way.

"My brother must have promised you a big sum for watching me," Sherlock states aloud, snapping John out of his preoccupation with useless knick knacks. "Why else would you be here?"

"What makes you think I'm not a babysitter?" John asks, turning his attention to Sherlock once again.

"Well, considering you're a middle aged man and babysitting is a predominant occupational choice found mostly in young women, I wouldn't believe it for a moment," Sherlock rattles off stepping in close to John to invade his space.

"That maybe so, but I don't see how it's relevant," John replies, side stepping around Sherlock to avoid feeling crowded.

"Just curious..."

"About what?"

"You," Sherlock puts simply, following John as he makes his way towards a bookshelf. "Who you are, really."

"No one of consequence, I can assure you," John brushes off.

"I still want to know," Sherlock bugs and this makes John stop abruptly and turn around sharply.

"Haven't you got some things to do? Like homework or chores?" John inquires, seeing how some people can be easily annoyed by Sherlock asking questions.

"Haven't you got a job to do?" Sherlock quips and it shoots John down as he crashes and burns.

John gives him a truly irritated look and there's that smug little grin of his spreading across his face again. Sherlock's grin widens even more because he knows he's gotten under John's skin now and there he will stay until he's thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Yes... This was going to be fun indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Can I ask you something?" Sherlock inquires rhetorically, watching John snatch a book from the shelf. "Did Mycroft tell you why he needs someone to watch me?"

"I suppose it's because he's busy and needs a helping hand?" John concludes sarcastically, giving the book he grabbed a once over.

"Oh, please... I'm fifteen. Don't you think I'm perfectly capable of watching myself?" Sherlock goes on to say.

John slides the book back into it's place on the shelf, looking at Sherlock with a furrow brow. Maybe it was odd that a fifteen year old boy needed to be looked after but John figured that precaution is normal. Mycroft must be either really protective over Sherlock or paranoid.

"I'm sure he has his reasons," John dismisses as he goes for another book.

"Of course he does, but that's not my point," Sherlock sighs, shifting a little closer. "Out of all the people he's acquainted with, why is it that he picks you? This place must be well out of your way, so it's not geographical. Maybe it's because he trusts you. Maybe it's because he wants to see what we'll do."

"What are you trying to say?" John asks finally, hating the way Sherlock twists it around to sound mildly sexual.

"Nothing," Sherlock says suddenly, but the idea has been planted. He makes his way over to the other side of the room. "I'm just thinking out loud."

John sighs and walks towards the chairs. John sits down in one of the two plush leather chairs with the book he snagged from the bookshelf. He was trying to ignore Sherlock's last comment by busying himself with a book while Sherlock milled aimlessly around the room. He didn't like Sherlock's silence though. It made him feel like the boy was secretly plotting something.

He can hear Sherlock pacing behind him, moving things, or otherwise disturbing them ever so slightly. Sherlock makes his way over to the bookcase, sifting through the rows and leaving some of them half pulled out purposely. Possibly to annoy Mycroft when he got back. No wonder Mycroft had such contempt for him.

Sherlock stands up on the tips of his toes, stretching an arm to get at a book on the highest shelf. John's eyes betray him and run up along the expanse of his body. Sherlock's shirt raised up a fraction, revealing the small of his back, and John's eyes consumed it selfishly.

The boy takes a moment to look over his shoulder, peeking back at John to see if the older man is watching him or not. Of course John is looking, how could he not? John averts his eyes back to the book and Sherlock smiles as if he's satisfied with himself. He isn't sure if Sherlock is trying to seduce him or if he just enjoys teasing him.

"Look, I didn't come here to play games..." John begins to say, lowering the book and turning his attention towards Sherlock.

"Of course not. You only came to babysit," Sherlock presses, stopping his little charade and leaning his back against the bookshelf. "What did you plan on doing with me, if not playing a game?"

Oh, I can definitely think of a few things to do with you, John muses consciously, but he refrains from saying it. Sherlock has his arms folded across his chest, smirking slightly, almost cheeky in his pride.

"You don't seem like the Conkers type," John remarks, deflecting Sherlock's advance.

Sherlock makes a sound as if he's truly insulted by the idea of playing a school yard game that did little to strength brain function. He knew John was only saying this to make a snappy joke, or at least he hoped John wasn't being serious.

"Don't be silly, that stuff is juvenile," Sherlock practically scoffs.

Sherlock pushes off of the bookcase and walks over to the mantle, opening up a clock face to deviate the time. John has to shake his head at this. Funny how Sherlock thinks Conkers is juvenile but messing with things around the house just to spite Mycroft isn't.

"And I take it you have something more mature in mind?" John inquires, disregarding Sherlock's strange quirks.

"A game of deduction," Sherlock declares.

He turns around sharply with his head held up high, like he's trying to be dramatic, but John is still as clueless as ever. As much as it infuriates Sherlock to dumb down his words, he must admit that John looks fairly cute when he's vacant.

"You mean like Cluedo?" John asks dimly.

Sherlock's shoulders slump a little in disappointment and he stomps one foot in frustration like a petulant child on the verge of throwing a tantrum. John can see why Mycroft needs an extra hand taking care of someone with such high standards.

"I was thinking of something a little more elegant," Sherlock says.

Elegant like the curve of that slender neck of ours I'd love to sink my teeth into, John thinks idly.

"Alright," John sighs heavily, setting his book down on the end table and giving the boy his undivided attention. "I'll humor you."

"If I can guess what you do for a living correctly, then we get to do anything I want," Sherlock proposes and doesn't elaborate any further.

"And if you're wrong?"

"I'm never wrong," Sherlock proclaims. John makes an indignant huff as if he's unconvinced and Sherlock has to groan internally. "Okay, if I am wrong... Then I'll leave you alone for the rest of the night. Deal?"

John concedes and simply nods in agreement. Sherlock walks over towards the vacant seat across from John and perches on it like a bird instead of sitting down like a normal person. He presses his hands together, assessing John wordlessly as he processes the information in the silence of his own mind.

The boy just stares at him, unmoving, and making John squirm subtly. John places his arms on the armrests, willing himself to relax. He thought Sherlock was just pulling his leg, trying to get a rise out of him, but he really did seem focused on the task at hand. A part of John thinks Sherlock has figured him out but another part screams bullshit.

"Have you got anything?" John asks impatiently, drumming his fingers on the leather armrests.

"Only everything..." Sherlock says neutrally, clearing his throat. "We've established that you can't possibly be a babysitter, so that's obviously out of the question. But you're very empathetic and you do care a great deal about people, so definitely some type of caregiver. It's safe to say that you work a standard nine to five, which means you're used to a certain routine. Am I right so far?"

John doesn't reply because he's too gobsmacked by Sherlock running his mouth at the speed of light. It was so disturbingly accurate that it couldn't possibly be true... But it was and Sherlock was reading him like an open book.

"I'll take your silence as a yes," Sherlock goes on as if it was just a speed bump in his deduction. "Going by your state of personal grooming you're rather professional, so either your job is serious or you take it quite seriously. This means you're always ready in case of an emergency. Which only gives us one solid answer: general practitioner. Am I wrong?"

"Mycroft told you about me, didn't he?" John is quick to accuse, finding it nearly impossible that Sherlock is spot on with his deduction. "There's no way you could figure that out."

"I didn't know about you before today. Your body language is telling me everything I need to know," Sherlock tells him truthfully. He hops down from his perch and sits cross legged instead. "So, I guess this means we get to do whatever I want."

They did have a deal and John figures he has to honor that deal no matter how much the idea makes him cringe. He can't begin imagine what asinine things Sherlock is going to put him through just to get his kicks. But it scared him to think that Sherlock might do something that he'd like.

Sherlock pushes himself out of his chair, stalking to where John sits tense. His deceivingly long legs move slowly, sinuous even, and every time Sherlock's knobby knees bend, John swears his heart stops. John's palms are sweating and Sherlock's getting closer and closer until finally stopping just in front of him.

"Mycroft keeps me locked up here all day," Sherlock says as he climbs onto John's lap. John freezes up noticeably and Sherlock wraps his arms around his tense shoulders. "Do you know why?"

John just shrugs as he bites the inside of his cheek, digging his nails into the armrests and trying, in vain, not to reach out and touch Sherlock. John should be pushing Sherlock off of him but he can't. He wants to grab those slender hips and grind his groin up into the boy.

"It's because I keep trying to lose my virginity," Sherlock continues, straddling John's lap to his comfort. "Mycroft didn't approve of who I was bringing home, so he locked me up in a tower in hopes my Prince Charming would come and deflower me one day. I mean, if you believe in that fairy tale rubbish."

"How romantic," John remarks mirthlessly, squirming slightly.

"And then what does he do? He leaves me all alone with one of his male acquaintances, knowing how I'll react," Sherlock elaborates, making John think about it for a moment. "I was right."

"About what?" John asks at a loss.

"Mycroft trusts you. Enough to know you'll resist your urges. You're doing it right now," Sherlock points out, bringing his hands to John's chest to feel his heart racing. "But, as noble as your efforts are, they're ultimately wasted."

Sherlock grinds his hips into John, moving just the right way for John's hard on to strain against Sherlock's backside, and the boy smirks devilishly. Sherlock goes in for a kiss but John fists his hand in the front of Sherlock's shirt, stopping him. John's pupils are blown wide and his breathing is labored, suggesting that it's taking great willpower to do just this.

"We had a deal. Whatever I wanted to do," Sherlock reminds in a rather dangerous tone, as if he has authority over John.

"And we still do have a deal. Just not that," John says, twisting the thin fabric of Sherlock's shirt in his hands.

"Why not? I know you want to. I can tell by the way you breathe," Sherlock postulates.

The boy tries to lean in for a kiss again only to be met with more resistance from the older man. Sherlock unconsciously rubs his backside further into John's erection and John twists harder, sure enough to stretch the fabric. Sherlock makes a little put off noise and pouts petulantly and oh, does he look like sin.

"You're too young for me," John offers lamely, knowing damn well that isn't the reason that's stopping him. "I could get into serious trouble."

"Petty excuses... It's perfectly consensual and Mycroft would never speak a word of it," Sherlock says with promise, making John's decision easier by the second. "We agreed. Anything I want to do..."

"And what is it that you want?" John inquires, swallowing thickly even though he already knows the answer.

"Even you can't be that clueless," Sherlock teases with a to die for smile.

John isn't sure if he's mocking him or complimenting him, either way he ends up giving in.


	3. Chapter 3

John lets go of Sherlock's shirt, loosening his grip until finally coming to rest his hands on Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock takes this as silent submission as if John is stopping his attempts to postpone the inevitable. There's a moment when Sherlock just stares at John, bright eyes piercing right through him, before leaning forward to leave a tentative kiss upon John's lips.

The kiss itself is inexperienced and somewhat hesitant, but there's a confident subtext to it. Almost like Sherlock is nervous but dead set on proving himself in a way to impress John. John doesn't respond at first, more interested in how Sherlock will commence, and isn't surprised when he kisses him again.

Sherlock braces his hands against John's chest, craning his head slightly to deepen the kiss but his efforts yield no favorable results. John cups one hand behind Sherlock's head, angling it just the right way, and opens his mouth against the boy's as if to show him how to do it properly. He gasps a little at John's sudden interested but it's not entirely unwanted.

John steers the kiss in a more successful direction, letting Sherlock mime his movements until the boy finally gets the hang of it and they are both responding accordingly. Kissing Sherlock's lips turned out to feel a lot better than John had previously thought and he didn't plan on stopping.

John brings his other hand around Sherlock to push him closer by the small of his back until they are chest to chest. Sherlock's breath hitches ever so slightly, causing his chest to inflate against John even more. John's arms wrap around Sherlock's slender body, loving the way Sherlock shifts here and there against his broad chest.

They part breathlessly, panting even, as they gasp for much needed air. Sherlock's lips are a bit pinker than before but that's really no surprise since he's flushed to a lovely shade. He's aroused, as clearly as John is aroused. Sherlock shifts back marginally so he can spare a look down between them, smiling faintly at the sizeable bulge in John's trousers.

"I suppose we ought to do something about this," Sherlock murmurs suggestively, dropping a hand down to grope John.

"Assuming you know what to do," John jests, spreading his legs a little to give Sherlock better access.

Sherlock kneads the older man's erection, marveling at the distinct hardness as he bites his lip in concentration. Maybe his hand trembles a little, because Sherlock hasn't even done this before. Feeling a grown man so intimately for the first time is definitely a great start, but the end result is what Sherlock is really after.

"Go on then," John urges, nodding towards Sherlock's hand. "Give it a try since you're so bold."

The boy purses his lips together and squints his eyes as if he is in no mood for a challenge, but he takes the bait anyway. Both hands work diligently to undo the front of John's pants, fumbling as he reaches into the opening. John's hands curl around Sherlock's thin wrists, stilling them just long enough to help Sherlock get what he's after.

Sherlock's nerves were getting the better of him and when John pulled himself out of his pants Sherlock couldn't stifle the moan that surfaced from his throat. Now, of course Sherlock has seen one before, for research and such, but never has he seen one in person. Seeing as how John was his first, Sherlock can honestly admit that he was not disappointed in the least.

John was much bigger than him obviously, since Sherlock was still growing, but not excessively so. Sherlock was confident that he could take him, with preparation of course. Still, there was a tiny part of Sherlock's psyche, a piece of him he tried to bury deep, that was a little hesitant towards the notion. Which is why his body was making involuntary noises and tremors.

"You can touch it. If you're still up for it, that is," John goads, egging Sherlock on.

"I plan to do more than touch it," Sherlock rebuffs.

He slides off of John's lap, dropping down to his knees just at the older man's feet and reaches for John's cock. Sherlock grasps the base of it, squeezing it firmly but calmly and making John groan at the touch. Sherlock's fingers are long and elegant, applying just the right amount of pressure to stroke John.

Sherlock knows how to do this because he's practiced many times on himself. For data, of course. He shuffles up on his knees to lean in better and drapes his curls in John's lap. The view is obscured on John's end but he knows what the boy intends to do down there. And it isn't just to prove a point.

There's a tentative lick that is meant only for tasting and feeling just how hot John's aroused flesh is. Then Sherlock licks at the tip again and again until he eventually swipes his tongue up the underside agonizingly slow. The spit trail stops before he reaches the tip but Sherlock is more than plentiful with saliva.

John has a taunt on the tip of his tongue but it gets lost in the groan of pleasure when Sherlock wraps his beautiful lips around him. John immediately threads a hand in Sherlock's curls to ground himself more than anything and Sherlock moans around his mouthful at the quirk. He silently hopes John will pull his hair.

Sherlock tries to go down as far as he can in one go, but he doesn't get very far when his gag reflex starts to protest. He pulls off altogether, choking slightly as he still holds John's cock in one hand. John smooths his hand across his scalp in a calming manner, letting his natural caring demeanor take over.

"It's not a race, alright? Take your time," John says with a hushed tone.

Sherlock huffs at this, hating the way John makes him out to sound like a kid or something. He knows that's not what John is getting at, but it still irritated him to think he couldn't do something. Sherlock adjusts himself better and hovers over John's cock once again, taking a moment to stroke him before bending down to suck on the head.

"Yes, just like that," John groans, squeezing at Sherlock's curls as the boy timidly ventures downward. "Nice and steady."

Sherlock slides down further, moving in intervals of centimeters rather than inches to test his limits. He reaches the top of his knuckles where his hand is wrapped firmly around the base of John's cock. Sherlock believes he can go down further if he moves his hand, but he opts to stroke instead.

Seeming to be pleased with this, Sherlock starts a somewhat steady rhythm, syncing his mouth with his hand. John's hand tangled in Sherlock's curls begins to move up and down to the cadence of Sherlock's bobbing head, relishing in the way it feels to have that hot pretty mouth enclosed around his cock.

The boy gets carried away in his own musings, sucking harder and becoming more bold and purposeful with his rhythm to the point that John yanks on his hair tenderly. It's meant to stop Sherlock but the boy keeps going, taking this as motivation more than anything as he moans wantonly. John pulls his head back a little roughly but Sherlock doesn't wince.

"You keep doing that, then this will all be over much more quickly," John warns with a faint chuckle.

Sherlock hums in acknowledgment, giving John's cock one more solid lick before standing up. His knees are red from where they rubbed against the carpet and his lips are obscenely shiny from saliva. Couple that with his slightly mussed curls and Sherlock is quite the sight right now.

"We can't have that," Sherlock agrees, voice slightly hoarse from abuse. "We haven't even got to the best part yet."

Sherlock digs around in his pocket to retrieve his supplies he kept concealed until now. He tosses a condom and a small packet of lubricant at John who fumbles to collect them. John looks up at Sherlock dumbfoundedly, furrowing his eyebrows less than subtly. He holds them up precariously.

"You had these on you the whole time?" John inquires.

"Problem?"

"Why-" John sighs with resignation, unclear of how to form his sentence. "You know what? I don't want to know why..."

"Good. Then it'll save us the trouble."

Without further hesitation, Sherlock bunches the hem of his shirt in his hands and pulls it over his head. He tosses his shirt off to the side and proceeds to undo his shorts. John watches intently as they slide down his legs and drop to the floor. It's the first time John notices that Sherlock is barefoot, though he doesn't see how this is significant.

John's gaze slowly drifts back up the length of Sherlock's long legs, coming to rest at his groin. John swallows because Sherlock isn't wearing any underwear, leaving his flushed and hard cock exposed to the naked eye. He certainly is grown for a boy his age, John entertains.

The boy is practically glowing in his adolescent perfection and John has to wonder how he was lucky enough to be given the dubious task of deflowering such beauty. Sherlock shuffles towards John, prompting the blonde man rid himself of his jumper and attempt to take off his shirt only to be stopped by Sherlock.

"No."

He bends down just slightly to pull John's pants down a little more and climbs onto John's lap, straddling him in such a way that makes their hard ons rub against each other. Sherlock bunches his hands in John's button up and rips the front of it open, sending buttons to fly everywhere. John jumps at this but it also gets him going.

"I want you like this," Sherlock informs, turning into something else altogether. "Prepare me."

"What?"

"Oh, for god's sake!" Sherlock groans, grabbing the packet from John's hand and tearing it open with his teeth. "Open. Me. Up. Now."

He squirts some of the liquid onto John's fingers and raises up on his knees so John can get his hand between them. John rubs his fingers over Sherlock's virgin hole, making the boy sigh with content at the slick feeling. He rubs it again, firmer this time, pressing a finger in ever so gently.

His finger slips inside and, oh does Sherlock make the most beautiful noise John has ever heard. It's a gasp caught between a moan and a sob, cracking slightly at the end as if it takes Sherlock's breath away. John slides it all the way until it's enclosed within Sherlock's tight undiscovered body.

John makes quick work of Sherlock tight entrance as he starts to finger him expertly, adding a second finger followed by a third when Sherlock starts to relax. Sherlock has his hands braced against John's shoulders, spreading his shirt open further as he rides the blonde man's fingers.

Sherlock comes to an abrupt halt when John's fingers curve marginally, pressing hard against the inside of his walls. His pupils are blown wide and his mouth drops open but no sound comes out. Not at first. Sherlock fists a hand in John's short hair, pulling painfully so, and practically wails at the sensation.

"Perks of being a doctor, huh?" John chuckles breathlessly, loving how Sherlock breaks just slightly. "I can do a lot more than that."

John leans forward and tender kisses Sherlock's neck, tasting a slight tang of salt that suggests Sherlock is covered in a thin sheet of sweat. He withdraws his fingers from Sherlock's body and rips open the condom packet, letting the boy roll it down the length of his cock. Sherlock spreads the rest of the lubricant all over John, stroking even to elicit small sounds from John.

"I won't lie to you. This is going to hurt," John warns, locking gazes with Sherlock.

"I know it is," Sherlock shoots off quickly, feeling insulted by the fact John sees the need to comfort him. "I'm perfectly capable of taking it. Now shut up and fuck me already."

Well, I certainly don't need to be told twice, John thinks and without any further preamble, he grips the base of his cock and brings Sherlock's lower half down to him. John lines up to Sherlock's entrance and Sherlock takes a deep shuddering just before he breaches the boy, marking virgin territory as unchaste with one swift thrust.

Sherlock calls out despite himself and it really knocks the wind out of him. He had been prepared for this moment and now he feels as inexperienced as he appears to be. Maybe John smirks a little at this, but his hands drop down to Sherlock's hips, helping to steady him as the boy sinks onto John's cock until he's fully impaled.

John gives Sherlock a moment to catch his breath, stroking his hair and his back until Sherlock squirms against him. His legs are a bit cramped in the confined space of the chair but the strain is worth it. Sherlock raises his body up a fraction, testing the resistance of his body before dropping back down.

Sherlock grips the backrest of the chair tightly, making his knuckles turn white and he simply nods at John. John takes the hint and picks the slender boy up by his hips and pulls him back down. Sherlock winces and makes a tiny noise, but he never asks to stop. He's come too far.

They start a steady rhythm like with John dictating the pace and controlling Sherlock's own movements. But soon enough they break out of this sequence and Sherlock begins to hump and grind on John's lap, riding him jaggedly and possibly trying too hard, but John enjoys the show the boy puts on for him.

It still hurts like hell, Sherlock will admit, but he thrives off of the adrenaline the pain brings and he swears it makes him bounce on John harder. John opts to just hold onto Sherlock's hips and enjoy the sensation of Sherlock's tight hole gripping him securely. It hurts him almost as surely as it hurts Sherlock.

Sherlock hangs his head down to where their foreheads press together, hopping in John's lap and panting in the hot space between. They share a heated kiss, swallowing each other's noises and mashing their sweat slick chests together. And, fuck, do they feel right at home.

John feels a shift between them and notices that Sherlock is stroking his cock fervently. It stills Sherlock's movements, provoking John to carry on where the boy left off. He poises Sherlock's hips in such a way that makes them both go crazy when John thrusts relentlessly into the lithe body.

Sherlock looks so beautiful and glorious in this moment with his head thrown back and slack jawed and John can't resist the urge any longer. He leans towards the stretch of Sherlock's neck and bites lovingly, marking the flushed skin until it bruises. It's enough to make Sherlock whine and stroke himself vigorously until he finally comes.

His cock pulses in his tightly fisted palm as it coats his knuckles and John's abdomen with his release. John sucks on Sherlock's neck, fucking him thoroughly through his last tremors before finding solace in his own climax. Sherlock isn't sure if the pulsing in his channel is coming from John or his throbbing and abused entrance, either way it feels magnificent.

"I do believe, Mr. Watson, that you have proven to be not such a disappointment after all," Sherlock pants out of breath and feeling sore all over.

John figures this is Sherlock's way of saying good job.

They stay like this, gasping in each other's arms until they come down from the high of their lovemaking. John suddenly feels glad for the events that led up to this moment and he wouldn't mind it if Mycroft asked him back one day.

"I trust everything went swimmingly this afternoon," Mycroft says later when he finally comes home.

John is reading the book he never started earlier and Sherlock is lying on the ground on his stomach, studying the fibers of the carpet with a magnifying glass. John looks up from his book to acknowledge Mycroft with a somewhat nervous smile.

"Yes, yes of course. Things went very well," John gushes, setting down his book and standing at attention. "He was very good."

Mycroft looks around the room and notices a few things a little off. First, there's the things Sherlock purposely left askew and then there's the stray buttons from when Sherlock ripped open the front of John's shirt. Mycroft shifts his gaze between John and Sherlock, instantly noticing the love bite on his brother's neck and rumpled shirt beneath John's jumper.

It doesn't take much to put two and two together and it's so obvious, like they hadn't even bothered to keep it a secret. But that was what Sherlock wanted, wasn't it? To rub it in Mycroft's face. Touché, is all Mycroft can think.

"I'm sure he was," Mycroft humors knowingly.


End file.
